Skating with the Statue of Liberty (14 page)

“Oui, mon père.”

“All right then. Use good common sense, boys! Don't do anything
too
foolish.” He grinned again and headed up the trail. As he disappeared, the boys gathered around Maurice.

“Gustave Becker,” Maurice said, speaking to him for the first time. “You want to be a full member of our troop, the Franco-American Boy Scouts of New York, Troop 582?”

“Yes!”

“Joining our troop is a great honor, and you must earn it. We have two very difficult challenges for you today. Tests of your physical and mental strength.”

Xavier giggled excitedly, and Maurice turned on him sternly.
“Éponge Tenace!” Tenacious Sponge!
“Please treat this occasion with the seriousness it deserves.”

“Oui, Lion Exigeant!” Yes, Demanding Lion!

“Your first challenge, neophyte”—Maurice turned
back to Gustave—“is to crawl under these bushes, all the way to the stream. You have three minutes by my watch to get there and back, or you fail.” Gustave looked anxiously in the direction Maurice indicated. It was a long way to the stream through very dense shrubbery.

“Reach into the stream and get a rock from the bottom,” Maurice continued. “Then crawl back to the path and show us your sleeve to prove you made it all the way to the stream. You have to stay down. You can crawl or wiggle on your stomach, but you can't stand up. Pretend there's enemy fire overhead. I'm timing you—now go!”

Gustave dropped to his belly and slithered forward through the bushes as fast as he could, shoving his way along through the wet underbrush. Branches poked into him. Mud seeped up through his jacket and pants. Maman wasn't going to be happy.

“One minute down!” he heard the boys shouting behind him. “Two to go!”

He bore to the right, where the bushes seemed slightly less thick, and got up to his knees to crawl furiously ahead. That was much faster, but a sharp stone poked into his right knee. “Ah!” he gasped, but he kept going. The stream was right ahead of him now. He lay on his belly on the muddy bank, plunging his left hand down into the stream. Bitterly cold water soaked the sleeve of his jacket. He scrabbled around on the bottom and grabbed a smooth rock. Done!

He turned around to crawl back with his fist clenched around the stone. A branch slapped him sharply in the face.

“Two minutes down!” came a shout from farther away.

Mustering all his energy, ignoring the branches in his face, he crawled and slithered back at a furious speed, realizing that the way to the stream had been downhill, and that now he was going uphill.

“Two and a half minutes down!” came the call. “Thirty seconds left!”

He plunged ahead through the sticky mud, slipping once so that half his face got caked in it, and then, scratched and panting, he pulled himself onto the path out of the last of the bushes just as the call came. “THREE MINUTES!”

“You did it, Gustave!” Jean-Paul pulled him to his feet. “Boy, are you filthy!”

Gustave straightened up, panting.

“You barely made it, neophyte,” Maurice said, his sternness wobbling for a moment into a smile as Gustave combed his fingers through his hair, pulling out globs of mud and leaves. “Did you get the rock?”

Gustave held it up triumphantly.

“You're plenty wet!” Bernard said. Gustave glanced down at his jacket and twisted the cloth of his sleeve, squeezing water out onto the path.

“So. We march on in silence now, men,” Maurice commanded. “The neophyte has completed the first of the two challenges.”

They hiked forward. Gustave's damp skin tingled, half frozen, and his muddy shoes sloshed along the path.
Half done
, he thought triumphantly. How hard could the other challenge be? He could do another one like that, no problem.

Maurice raised his hand. “Halt!”

Beside the path was a narrow clearing with rows of logs set like benches. The other boys looked at each other, grinning, and arranged themselves on the logs. Gustave started to sit with them.

“Non!”
barked Maurice. “You stand here with me and face them. They must see your face clearly. Here.” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. “Wipe some of the mud off so they can see you,” he said in a more normal tone of voice. Gustave did.

“And now for the second of the two great challenges,” Maurice intoned, sternly again. “This is the truth challenge. You have to answer some questions. To show your purity of spirit, you must reveal your soul to your comrades.”

Gustave looked nervously from Maurice to the others.

“There are three questions,” Maurice said. “Face the men when you answer. Question one. Who is your best friend?”

Gustave released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. That wasn't so private or personal. The answer was easy. “I have two. Jean-Paul—” he pointed at his cousin “—and also, back in France, Marcel.”

Jean-Paul's face shifted, unreadable.

“Good. Now for question two,” Maurice commanded. “Remember, you must answer honestly. Who is the most interesting girl you have seen in America?”

A snort came from Xavier. The others looked at Gustave, grinning, anticipatory. Jean-Paul was smiling
again, smirking almost. Gustave's face went hot. Martha at school
was
exceedingly pretty—he knew that a lot of boys would name her. But…“September Rose,” he said, blushing. “This girl from my school.”

“Oooh—ooh!” several of the boys howled at once.

“SEPTEMBER ROSE?” Maurice bellowed the name so loudly two crows started up, cawing, from a nearby tree. “That's an unusual name.”

Gustave's blush deepened. “I guess.”

“Is she blonde?” Guy demanded.

“A tall, curvy American blonde?” Bernard grinned.

“Answer!” barked Maurice.

“No. Black hair.”

“Ooh, sexy!” said Xavier.

“As if you would know anything about sexy, Tenacious Sponge!” André elbowed him.

“And now, for the third and final question. Remember, you must tell the absolute truth.”

Gustave nodded.

“This is the Franco-American Boy Scouts. Face the men as you answer. When you have been here a year, which will you be more, Gustave? French or American?”

Strangely, that was the most personal question yet. Memories of France flooded through Gustave. Crusty baguettes. Cuckoos calling in the woods in spring. Fields full of sunflowers. But then other memories hit him like a slap. Graffiti on the street:
Jews out of France
. And what he had felt, to his shame, when the border police let his family cross into Spain, leaving France behind: relief.
Deep, exhausted relief. But he still knew what the answer was. “I am French,” he said firmly. “France is
ma patrie
.”
My fatherland
.

Maurice nodded. “That's what we all say when we first get here,” he said.

“No, I said Corsica was,” Guy said.

“Yeah, sure, but that's part of France,” Maurice answered. “Gustave, you have two countries now. France and America. We all do. So because that was your answer, there is one more thing we have to do, to complete your initiation. Bernard, the knife?”

Bernard pulled a pocketknife out of his side pocket, flipped open the blade, and handed it to Maurice. Gustave eyed the sharp blade.

“Kneel,” said Maurice. “You are both French
and
American now. There are a lot of people in America who are two things, especially in New York. But you've got to be both. So we have to make America part of you, and we have to make you part of America.” He straightened up and spoke in a booming voice. “Neophyte! Your blood will mingle with the soil, joining you forever to your new country. Hold out your hand.”

Gustave held out a shaky palm, and Maurice drew the blade of the knife across Gustave's forefinger. A dark drop of blood welled up and fell to the ground, and then another and another. Maurice pushed the blade back into the pocketknife, flipped out a metal hook, and, squatting, used it to dig around the spot where the drops had fallen. Gustave watched him churn up the dirt.

“Let me,” he said suddenly. Maurice shrugged and
handed him the knife. Gustave dug and churned with the metal hook of the pocketknife, mixing the blood into the dirt until neither was distinguishable from the other.

“Now you're part of America,” Maurice said, gesturing ceremoniously. “Rise!”

Gustave got to his feet, watching curiously as Maurice took a canteen out of his rucksack and poured water into a tin camping mug. Bernard and Xavier and Jean-Paul scooped up soil from another spot and plopped it into the water, stirring. “Mmmm—yummy!” said Bernard mockingly, and they all laughed.

Maurice handed the murky cup of water to Gustave. “When you've drunk this down, you will have successfully completed your initiation,” he said, grinning. “This is the soil of your new homeland. Drink it down and make America part of you.”

Gustave looked at the muddy water. It was disgusting. Would it really change him to drink it? He brought it to his lips.

“Chug it! Chug it! Chug it!” the boys chanted. Gustave lifted the cup and gulped mouthful after mouthful of the bitter drink. He held the empty cup out to the boys triumphantly and flipped it upside down. “Did it!”

The boys cheered jubilantly. Maurice clapped him on the shoulder and then waited until the others settled down. “Well done, Gustave!” he said. “You are one of us now. I will give you your totem name. It is…” He paused, and the younger boys waited.
“Méhari Pondéré.”

“Oh yeah! That's good!” said Guy. “He has such a serious face.”

“And he's reliable,” said Jean-Paul. “You can count on him. Like a
méhari
in the desert.”

Serious Camel
. Not a bad name, thought Gustave. Those
méharis
were an important part of the French army in northern Africa, galumphing along, carrying people and supplies. He could live with that name.

“And now can we meet Father René and go to Nedick's?” asked Xavier. “I'm starving!”

“Me too!” said Jean-Paul.

Gustave shifted nervously, sticking his hands into his pockets and fingering the two nickels there. He was suddenly very hungry too, but the only money he had was for the subway ride home. The rest of his money was in a jam jar on a shelf in the apartment.

André must have read the worry on his face. “Father René'll treat,” he said, slinging his arm around Gustave's shoulder. “Let's get Méhari here his first Nedick's orange soda to wash away the taste of that delicious drink we made him guzzle. And maybe you deserve a hot dog too!”

They started back down the trail to meet Father René. Jean-Paul began singing
“Il était un petit navire,”
“There Was a Little Ship,” and the others joined in, Gustave too. He was scratched and bruised and cold, and his finger stung where it had been cut. He was covered with mud, his mouth tasted like dirt, and he was exhausted. And, for the first time since arriving in America, he felt supremely happy.

19

A
s he got ready for bed that night, Gustave realized that he was looking forward to the next week. Maybe he would have another laundry delivery for September Rose. And he'd probably see André at school. It was funny to think that there had been another French kid at the school and that Gustave hadn't even known it. He might have crossed paths with André every day without even looking at him.

During homeroom, the principal made announcements over the loudspeaker. Because of the crackling and static, Gustave always had a hard time following them. Today all he understood was “lots of schools,” “victory,” “rally,” and “war effort.” Joan of Arc Junior High School had been invited to do something. Gustave didn't know what, but the class started talking excitedly, so it seemed like it was going to be a big deal.

“Quiet!” Mrs. McAdams shouted. “Raise your hands!”

As Gustave listened, he started to figure it out. He heard the word “audition” over and over, which meant the same thing in French. After a few minutes he noticed words he'd heard before in music class—“soprano” and “alto.” Then he heard “chorus,” and he realized that they must be talking about a group from Joan of Arc Junior High going to sing at a rally, and he lost interest. He certainly wasn't going to audition for that!

Suddenly Mrs. McAdams turned to him. “YOU UNDERSTAND, GUS?” she boomed. “RALLY FOR VICTORY IN THE WAR! CHILDREN WILL SING! TEACHERS PICK THE BEST!
LA-LA-LA!
” She sang in a fake voice, making the class snort with laughter. Gustave nodded, cringing in embarrassment.

Gustave walked from homeroom to science with Frank, joining up with Miles and Leo in the hallway. As they arrived at the science classroom, Gustave caught sight of André in a group of older students going in the opposite direction. André waved. Miles, Frank, and Leo stared at Gustave as he waved back.

“Was he waving at you?” Miles asked excitedly.

“How do
you
know a ninth grader?” Leo demanded.

“Boy Scouts,” Gustave said.

“I'm in Boy Scouts too,” Leo said, sounding as if he were accusing Gustave of something. “But all the kids in my troop are in seventh grade, like us.”

“It's the Franco-American Boy Scouts. We're different ages, but we're all from France.”

“Andy's French?” Leo sounded incredulous. “But he doesn't wear those dopey French pants. No offense, Gus.”

After lunch they had recess in the small play area outside the school. The blacktop was packed with kids, some shouting and running around, some basking in the sun against the wall, talking. A group of ninth grade boys had dibs on the basketball hoop, as usual. Gustave had never played the game—he went to his English class for foreign students when the others had physical education.

“Race you to the other side!” called Miles. “Ready, go!” He, Gustave, and Frank darted across the blacktop. Miles made it to the wall first, with Gustave and Frank half a pace behind. Just then, a stray orange ball bounded toward them.

“
Attention
, Gustave!” André shouted in French, then switched into English. “A little help?”

Without thinking, Gustave jumped up, brought the ball down with his knee, and kicked it back to André. The ninth grade boys waiting under the basket laughed.

“This is basketball, kid, not soccer!” André shouted. “Use your hands. Come learn how to play!”

Gustave ran over. At first he was terrible at maneuvering the ball with his hands, and none of his shots went in. But then André showed him how to bend his knees and push evenly with both hands during a set shot, and another ninth grader, Lou, showed him how to use the backboard. By the time the bell rang, Gustave had actually gotten the ball through the basket three times.

“We'll make an American of you yet, Serious Camel!” André said to him in French as they went in. “Come and join us anytime.”

“Why did the ninth graders want you to play basketball with them?” Leo asked as Gustave slid into his seat for history. “You're terrible!”

“He was getting better at the end,” Miles said loyally. “I wish the ninth graders would let us all play.”

“They shouldn't always hog the baskets,” Frank said.

“We could draw a circle on the wall and shoot at it even if we can't use a basket,” Leo said. “Me and Gus against you and Miles, tomorrow at recess. What do you fellas say?”

Gustave looked at Leo, surprised but pleased. “Sure!”

Gustave's good mood faded when Mr. Coolidge announced the homework. In addition to a reading assignment, Mr. Coolidge gave them a handout about a long-term project on a historical figure. “It should be about someone you admire,” Mr. Coolidge said. “I expect you to do research at the public library and use at least three sources. You'll have to write an essay and give an oral report. A speech to the class,” he said, speaking more slowly and clearly and looking at Gustave. “Everyone will do it. No exceptions.” Gustave nodded reluctantly. His stomach tightened at the thought of trying to speak in front of everyone. At least the due date was in April, almost a month away. He didn't have to worry about it for a while.

After school Gustave looked through the pile of packages waiting for him on Mr. Quong's counter. He was happy to discover one at the bottom addressed to “Mrs. Leonora Walker” at September Rose's address. A light rain was coming down as he started out, and his bike splashed through puddles. But he was getting much quicker at delivering now, as Mr. Quong had predicted. He worked his way uptown, saving September Rose's address for last.

Gustave hurried up the stairs and then paused outside her door, catching his breath. He ran his fingers through his hair and knocked.

The door opened immediately, and September Rose peeked out. She was wearing a pink sweater. Her long string of beads was looped around her neck, and she had the curls again, one against each cheek. “Hi!” she whispered, stepping into the hallway. Chiquita slipped out the door from behind her, whining excitedly and jumping up on Gustave. “Chiquita, quiet!” September Rose hissed. “I gotta warn you. My granma is about to give you the third degree. Miss Noelle told her about you and me talking in the hall that other time.”

“The third degree? What's that?”

Just then the apartment door at the end of the corridor opened a crack, and Miss Noelle peeked out. Chiquita bounded down the hall toward her, yipping, and Miss Noelle pulled her door closed again. At the same moment, a voice from inside September Rose's apartment called, “Is that the delivery boy? Invite him in, Seppie. I'll be right there.”

“She's gonna ask you a lot of questions,” September Rose whispered. “And I mean a
lot
! Come on in.”

Gustave rubbed his feet extra carefully on the mat outside before going in so that he wouldn't leave any marks on the carpet.

“He's here, Granma,” September Rose called, and then looked back at Gustave. “Sorry,” she mouthed, raising her eyebrows.

An elderly woman in a blue flowered dress came out through a swinging door that led into a kitchen. She was round and small, but she moved with majesty as she came toward him. “This the boy?” she asked. “Chiquita, down.” The little dog dropped immediately onto the floor, wagging her tail and looking up hopefully. “I want to talk to you, young man,” she said, ignoring the little dog. “I am Mrs. Walker, September Rose's grandmother.”

This was obviously a formal situation, so Gustave did what his mother had trained him to do back in France. “Hello, madame—um, I mean, hello, Mrs.” That didn't sound quite right, but he held out his hand. Mrs. Walker looked surprised, but she shook his hand, her manner thawing slightly.

“You're Gustave?” she asked.

“Yes, Mrs.”

“Ma'am,” September Rose murmured.

“I mean, yes, ma'am.”

“What's your last name?” she demanded.

“My name is Gustave Becker.”

“You're a foreigner?”

“Yes, I'm from France.”

“He's from Paris, Granma!” September Rose interrupted. “Where I want to live when I grow up.”

Mrs. Walker hushed her. “You live nearby?”

“On West Ninety-First Street.”

“I see. And what does your father do?”

“Granma!” September Rose protested.

“I'm just trying to get to know the boy, Seppie.”

“In France he had a store. He sold cloth and shoes. Right now, he is a janitor.”

“A janitor—really?” Mrs. Walker looked surprised. “And your mother? Does she work too?”

“She's a seamstress. She sews things on hats. Flowers and…” He couldn't think of the English word. “Shiny small things.”

“I think you mean spangles. That's keen!” said September Rose. “I like sewing too. Maybe she could teach me.”

Mrs. Walker was still looking at Gustave curiously. “So,” she said, a bit more mildly. “You know my Seppie from school. You have classes together?”

“Yes.”

“And lunch!” September Rose said, grinning. “We have lunch together—along with
Mar-tha
!” She chanted the name mockingly.

“Who is Martha?” Mrs. Walker sounded a bit bewildered.

“Oh, she's just this girl in our grade who's a big flirt. She was flirting with Gustave for a while, but now she's back to flirting with Leo. Martha thinks she's the cat's meow, right, Gustave? She just
loves
being the center of
attention.” September Rose giggled, batting her eyes. “This is what she's like: ‘Kiss my hand, Leo! I mean, don't kiss it! I mean, do! Ooh, look everybody, he's kissing my hand!' ” She grabbed Gustave's hand and mimicked the way Martha had pulled her hand back and forth with Leo, giggling wildly. Chiquita jumped up and ran between the two of them, whining.